My Throat, Your Teeth
by Saucery
Summary: Resistance is futile. Or, Stiles discovers that it's better to let the crazy werewolf have his way.


Notes:

In this universe, werewolves can _choose_ whether or not to release the toxin responsible for Turning their victim; therefore, it is entirely possible for a werewolf to claw and bite someone without the victim also becoming a werewolf. It's all in the intent.

Of course, if the victim acts submissive and/or enticing enough to make the werewolf _forget_ about intent, then, well, all bets are off.

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><p><strong>MY THROAT  YOUR TEETH**

For Fabella, whose fabulous vid, _Your Throat / My Teeth_, inspired this story.

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><p>The seventh time Stiles catches Derek hulking quietly in a corner of his backyard, it isn't even a surprise.<p>

But the fact that Derek isn't even _bothering_ to conceal himself in the shadows, anymore?

Is the final. Fucking. Straw.

So, instead of ignoring the werewolf and his weird stalking ways politely, like he's been doing so far (he'd been worried about getting his face_clawed off_, but whatever), he whirls around and heads directly for Derek.

Derek's eyes go wide.

"Oh, no, you do _not_ get to look surprised. _I'm_ the one turning every corner and, hey, there's Derek Hale! Around. Every. Goddamn. _Corner_."

Derek's eyes are narrow, again.

"Yeah, you just do your creepy silence thing. Fuck, this is like Old MacDonald's farm, or something. Here a wolf, there a wolf, everywhere a werewolf - not that you _would_ keep wolves on a farm, unless it was, like, Doctor Moreau's farm - " And then Stiles cuts off, mostly because Derek slams him against the fence.

_And_ keeps staring at him.

"The slamming doesn't even get to me, now. I've gotten too - "

"It's getting to you." Derek's voice is sudden, in the darkness, and kind of… growly. Okay, no, that's _definitely_ a growl. "I can smell it on you."

"Uh?" Stiles swallows. "I mean, what? Smell what?" The fear, god, _please_ let it be the fear…

Derek - sniffs him.

"Ew, gross. Stop tha - ohgodwhat, stop, y-you're _licking_ - "

"You're vulnerable."

"You're licking, and I'm vulnerable. Great, glad we're clear on that. So would you please stop _licking my neck_ like you're going to _bite_ it? Like you're - p-pulling all the blood to the s-surface or someth - "

Derek _bites_.

"Oh, _fuck_ - " And if Stiles is shuddering, it's because Derek's just _bitten_ him. Actually, physically _bitten_ him, and even if his skin's gone unnaturally numb and doesn't hurt at all, Stiles can feel how _deep_ the bite is, the hot slide of those massive canines inside him as heavy and inevitable as the feeling of being held down and _fucked_, and hey, maybe pretending to look the other way while the Alpha werewolf stalked him all over town was a _good_ idea, damn his stupid Stilinski courage to _hell_ -

"Relax," Derek rumbles against his throat, the word _buzzing_ because it's wet with spit and maybe a bit of Stiles's _blood_, and Derek's eyes are as red as blood _should_ be, as sharp and as - as _hungry_ -

"P-please," and Stiles is dizzy, his body a trembling, pathetic thing, and maybe he's hard and maybe he isn't but he doesn't want to _die_, not that Derek would kill him, right? Derek's a _good_ guy - a really scary good guy - he's like the _Batman_ - "_Stop -_"

And Derek… stops. Licks him again - in something that somehow _feels_ like a parting shot - and steps away.

Stiles is left there, clinging onto the fence with aching hands, _trying_ not to sink down to the ground or just abruptly come in his pants. His knees won't lock. His whole neck is _wet_, and if all of that is blood then there's no way he's gonna _live_, but then some of whatever it is trickles down his collarbone and soaks into his _shirt_, and, shit, it's his favourite shirt and he's gonna have to _burn_ it -

"Breathe," says Derek, and Stiles _wheezes_, and - and tries to _glare_ -

Derek's smiling. Okay, not _smiling_, that thing Derek does with his mouth can never be called a _smile_, but - it's a sharp little hook of his mouth, the mouth that's just been at Stiles's _throat_, and - no. Just - no. It's obvious that the punctures have healed, because Stiles can _feel_ the blood stop welling out of them, and maybe the medicinal powers of werewolf spit work on other people, too. Stiles hadn't really thought about it, but he's thinking about it _now_, and the joints in his fingers are _hurting_ because he still can't bring himself to let the fence _go_ -

"You asked for it."

Stiles stares at him. It's _his_ turn to stare, because, seriously? What?

"You do not want me to follow you."

Well, _yeah_.

"And yet you do not consent to being Turned."

_What?_

Derek tilts his head. And _considers_ Stiles, fucking _patiently_, like Stiles is some tolerable variety of stupid. "You are pack."

Stiles still has vocal chords. He - he really ought to use them. But they all feel stretched and worked _raw_, and - fuck, he hadn't been _moaning _back there, had he?

"You," says Derek, "and Jackson, and Lydia, and Scott. You're my pack."

"Since when am I - " Stiles manages to rasp, fucking _finally_, and clears his throat. "_When_ - "

"Since you saved my life, and let me sleep in your bed, and surrendered your scent to me."

How - how the _hell_ does Derek make a simple cohabitation thing sound so _dirty_? "I just - you were on the run from the _law_, man, and I do not recall surrendering my _scent_ to you - "

"You let me mark you. Repeatedly."

What - "If by that you mean the wall-throwing, it was _you_ doing the throwing, remember?"

"You didn't fight me."

"How was I supposed to - "

"You bared your throat."

Stiles gapes. Not just because Derek actually _said_ that, but because Derek's eyes are _red_ again, and he's looking at Stiles's _throat_ again, and Stiles has the sudden, overwhelming urge to cover it with something, or maybe buy a ten-inch scarf made of _iron_, or maybe find some sort of carotid-protecting chastity-belt for the _neck_, or maybe just start wearing really high-collared coats like some hard-boiled detective from the 1920s. "Uh," he says. Because - what _can_ you say to that, anyway? To _all_ of that?

"You are naturally submissive. You would make an excellent Omega."

_Stiles's_ eyes are so huge they're probably popping out of his _head_ - he's researched this shit and he _knows_ what happens to Omegas - "No - no, thanks. Again. How many times do I have to turn you down before you - wait, was this some kind of _recruitment_ drive?"

"It was protection," says Derek, still very patiently. _Too_ patiently, almost like he's holding himself _back_, and - his eyes are still red. Fuck. His _eyes _are still _red_ -

"Against _what_?"

"Other wolves. There are several packs in surrounding areas, and rogue wolves, as well. I cannot risk - "

"_You_ can't risk?"

" - your being Turned by any of them."

Stiles… notices that it isn't his being hurt or coming to _harm_ that worries Derek, but his being - what? Claimed by another pack? _For_ another pack? For another - "Alpha," Stiles murmurs, realization dawning on him in a sickening wave of _heat_, all the way from his prickling scalp to his toes, sweating in their _sneakers_, and - and of _course_ the thought's sickening, it's the worst - the worst -

"Stop," snarls Derek, and his nostrils _flare_.

Stop _what_? Getting hard again? Shaking? Fucking _moaning_, because that _is_ the sound coming out of his mouth?

"_Stop_ - " Derek takes a step toward him, and Stiles -

Stiles has the presence of mind to clap a hand over his mouth, to shut himself _up_ -

Derek calms. Inhales. Slits his eyes. "Good." _Boy_, he doesn't say, but then, he doesn't have to. "If you won't let me Turn you, and you won't let me follow you for your own safety, then you must let me mark you. _Claim_ you, with my scent and with my saliva."

_As opposed to your_ - No, not thinking about that. _Not_.

"Your thoughts are obvious in your smells, and in your sounds." Derek actually looks _displeased_. "That quality is appealing to roving wolves, or to new Alphas looking to form packs."

_Like you?_

"You must be protected." Derek's eyes are blue again, human, like the thought of keeping Stiles safe is as centering for him as the thought of keeping _Allison_ safe is centering for Scott, and - whoa, look, something else to _not_ think about.

Stiles takes his hand away from his mouth, and - and raises his chin in something that definitely _isn't_ submission -

Derek's lips are quirking, again. "Stiles," he says, and sounds fucking _amused_. Like Stiles is just - "Do you consent."

Consent to what? Having his throat ripped out on a regular basis? "Don't even pretend that was a question."

"It's not," says Derek, slowly, like it's important that Stiles understands this. "It'll never be."

Stiles…

Stiles doesn't have anything to say to that.

And Derek, obviously _getting_ that, just turns and walks away.

Like - like this hasn't fucked Stiles _up_ -

Like it doesn't _matter_ -

It doesn't matter.

All Stiles has to do, after all, is sneak back up to his room and pull out his first-aid kit and disinfect those scabbed-over punctures, and _then_ find some discreet way to shred or burn his shirt, and then go to school tomorrow and pretend to Scott all day long that he hadn't just spent the previous night furiously masturbating to thoughts of Scott's Alpha, while still hiding said Alpha's bite-marks under a completely _un_seasonal turtleneck, except that Scott will probably be able to smell all of it on him and will ask all _sorts_ of uncomfortable questions, like why Stiles still hasn't said _yes_, or why Derek thinks Stiles is only good enough to be an Omega and not an equal, a _mate_, and -

- that's exactly it, isn't it? That's _it_.

Stiles can totally handle this. He can handle _anything_, up to and including dangerous ex-felons-turned-werewolf-stalkers, and this is _nothing_.

Nothing at all.

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><p><strong>fin.<strong>  
>Please review!<p> 


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